An Apple’s Point of View

Write a story from the point of view of an apple, sitting in a fruit basket on your kitchen counter, observing life around it.

Post your response (500 words or less) in the comments below.

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4 thoughts on “An Apple’s Point of View

  1. catbr

    Here I sit all plump and juicy and red
    An apple with a core but not a head.
    My place is usually at the bottom of the bowl
    But I really don’t mind ’cause I’ll last more.

    They gather round the table at different times of the day
    One having a laugh and another quite the bore.
    They really don’t have much to say anymore
    Not since grandpa fell on the floor.

    He got drunk one night and couldn’t see straight
    Passed out and slumped over the table
    Slipped over the edge and hit his head hard
    As he landed that night on the floor.

    The blood started running from out of his head
    And he never made even a stir.
    No one was home so he laid there all night
    All alone with the moon shining bright.

    The very next morn to the doctor he went
    Little Jimmy was shocked to see the sight.
    Everyone thought old grandpa wasn’t a drinker
    Yeah old grandpa he’s quite the big stinker.

  2. Grover Cleveland

    Last night, they came for Alice. We all looked on, stunned, as they not only cored her, but cut her into slices too. Animals. One of the little urchins that constantly run around here started in on her while it was still in the kitchen, spreading some nut-scented paste all over her before beginning to chomp away. It was ghastly.

    We came in together, Alice and I, from the local supermarket. Alice was as down-to-earth as you could expect from a Granny Smith, honestly. We were here on this counter for over a week together. I liked Alice because she wasn’t one of those haughty organic fruits, like the tangerine brothers to my right, constantly lording their pesticide-free life over you. Their arrogance is wasted, though, since we’re all going to be eaten in the end. Besides, nobody gives a damn about where you’re from. Unless you’re a banana or pineapple.

    The Dole fruits around here can’t really stand the Chiquitas. You know why? Because they’re racist. The Hawaiians even insist on calling “Chiquita” the United Fruit Company, even though that went out several decades ago. Joining in with them are the insufferably bigoted peaches from Georgia, who play to type and discriminate against anyfruit without fuzz on their exterior. The oranges seem to get along, unless we get a mix of Florida and California and then the knives come out. (Hey! Only figuratively!)

    On the other end of the spectrum, you’ve got your pears. Mute, basically. Never say anything. Emotionless. The only fruits you’ll hear less from are the melons and the berries, and that’s only because they go immediately into the fridge, that veritable chamber of horrors otherwise reserved only for juice. Revolting.

    Occasionally, we’ve gotten some comments from the vegetable gallery. The garlic cloves are the nastiest of all, up in their wire baskets, all haughty, along with the Idahoans and the ya…excuse me, sweet potatoes. Apologies. They tend to last a long time in here, and they know it.

    It’s the immigrants who have it worst, though. Man, we got some star fruits, maracujas (passion fruits for the uninitiated) mangoes, and papayas in here a couple days ago and the humans basically went, well, ape. Immediately, the slicing board comes out since the small ones all want to see what the new fruits taste like (yecch) right off the bat. It was a slaughter, a real juicebath. Even the blender came out. It was downright gory. Leaves you feeling empty.

    I can’t lie to myself, though. I know it’s only a matter of time before one of their hairless, oily, five-digited paws grabs me out of here and I’m hacked to pieces or gobbled up directly. I’ll tell you, this place is Death Row. Looking back now, we had it good in the supermarket. We had it good.


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